“Brilliant.”
Dylan claps me on the back with a laugh. “Good luck, man. Buzz me if you need a ride to the ER. Growing up with three brothers, I know all the fastest routes to the hospital.” He precedes me down the stairs. “And if she doesn’t shoot you on sight, maybe try talking to Lucy. The fact that you came out in the cold to check on her should count for something.”
I nod, though secretly I doubt anything I could do—short of selling my farm and moving to Antarctica—will ever please Lucy Billings.
Unless…
A plan forms as I take Dylan’s flashlight and head for my utility shed, where I fetch additional supplies. If Lucy’s intent on bringing a man to justice, she might appreciate a little help from a friend.
At least, I hope we’ll be friends again someday.
Or perhaps, something more than friends…
I shake my head, refusing to let the thought linger. I hurt her too deeply. I don’t have an iceberg’s chance in hell of being her steady date.
It’s one of my few regrets since impulsively buying a farm while on holiday in Sonoma County and leaving my life as an overworked, overstressed London stockbroker behind.
If only I’d had more faith in the connection I felt that night with Lucy, if only my pride had realized it was only habit and a few too many glasses of wine that had made her call out another man’s name instead of mine.
But I let my wounded ego call the shots and, as a result, have spent the year sleeping alone. No matter how many clever, attractive women I’ve met, none of them can compare to the Lucy I knew before I wrecked things. The girl with the craziest stories and a smile that welcomed me into her laughter.
We were close before the New Year’s Eve debacle.
Maybe this New Year’s Eve, we can start down a path to friendship again.
I hold on to that hope during the drive to Lucy’s place, the chilly walk through the quiet evergreen trees, and the tedious search along her property line for signs of a deer blind—a thing I had to look up on the internet before leaving my truck, having been born and raised in London to parents who were distrustful of anything occurring in the great outdoors.
I remain optimistic until something sharp bites the side of my head, and I cry out in pain. Before I can so much as lift a hand to the spot to inspect the damage, another missile strikes my face, centimeters from my eye, and Dylan’s words come rushing back.
Bloody hell.
The woman really is going to shoot my eye out.
3
Lucy
A deep voice cries out in the darkness, “Lucy, stop shooting! It’s me. Lawrence!” And my heart stops.
Holy shit!
Lawrence? Lawrence is Nude Santa!
The thought races through my head, only to be dismissed immediately. I’ve seen enough of Lawrence naked to know he looks nothing like my scrawny, pasty, regrettably hairy trespasser.
Which means…
Oh, God…
I flip on my floodlight, the one I was too rattled to turn on when I heard the footsteps tromping through the fallen leaves, and tip it toward the ground, revealing a fully clothed Lawrence holding a gloved hand to his right eye.
“Oh my God,” I say, horror clutching at my throat. “Your eye?”
“No, but too close for comfort.” He clicks on the flashlight in his hand and shines it my way. I blink as it settles on my shoulder, thoughtfully avoiding blasting me in the face the way I’m blasting him. I adjust the angle of my lamp as he continues. “And what about you? Are you all right? Emma’s car broke down, and when she couldn’t get in touch with you, she was worried. Asked me to pop by and check in.”
As my soul shrivels smaller inside my skin, I say, “Oh no, I should have called her before I left the house. I just assumed she’d forgotten and didn’t want to make her feel bad. But yeah, I’m fine.”
Except that you just shot an unarmed man and may have done lasting damage to his gorgeous, not at all slimy face because you’re a big baby who got freaked out by footsteps.
The inner voice has a point.
“Do you need to go to the emergency room?” I ask. “I can take you, just give me a second to climb down.”
“No, no, not at all. I’m quite all right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Hardly bleeding at all.”
“I’m coming down,” I insist, but before I can close the shutters on the blind, he says, “No, I’ll come up. Don’t want to interrupt your stakeout before you catch the kinky bastard. And I brought zip ties and a spare raincoat, so he’ll have something to wear while he’s tied up and waiting for the authorities to arrive.”
I hesitate for a moment, but Lawrence has already disappeared under my tree. I rise from my stool, flick on the lantern on the card table, and lift the hatch in the floor. I squint, barely able to make out his shadow in the darkness as he climbs the ladder. He’s graceful for a big man, and quiet, explaining why I didn’t hear his footsteps until he was right outside.